The Places We are Seen and Heard are Holy Places

Dear Readers,

Hi. I’m checking in. I have been editing my second collection of Snaps, which will be out in September, and found this oldie from the first collection that I posted once when I had 47 readers. The title stuck out to me, I think it was actually the prompt for the whole piece, but I liked it and think it’s true, and thought of sharing it with you as soon as I saw it. xo

The Places We are Seen and Heard are Holy Places

I accidentally told an old communist who has lived in Echo Park for 60 years, that I wanted to pick her ear. As soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew it was wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever once used that expression picking someone’s brain, so it would have been strange either way. We were at the old 1940s bar, me and a few women from the neighborhood. They went on Thursdays and had invited me. I was trying to force myself to be a grown-up, so I went, but I went 30 minutes late to show that I was busy and had other important things going on in my life.

I call the old woman a communist because she lived in the big house on Red Hill, a curve that dead-ended over a cliff at the end of my street. Charlie Chaplin had bought the property as a refuge for some of his black-listed friends back in the day and the house was curved around like a horseshoe and had an indoor swimming pool on the first floor. It was made of old white stone like you see in the English countryside.

The bar where we were meeting was built around the same time; Inside, the walls were covered in old wood, tables were round and solid, and everything was dark and moody. Faces and the edges of water glasses glowed in the candlelight.

An English woman named Kate passed out a flyer about how we should form a group who buys lottery tickets together. My heart sank. Is that what this was? Lottery tickets? My mind started to come up with reasons to leave. The woman went on to say that she used to buy tickets with friends from back home and it was laugh. Inside my head, I started throwing chairs and setting fire to curtains. Outside I said, “Did you ever win anything?”

“Oh yes lots,” she said. We smiled at each other, closed mouth.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Fear of becoming everything that bothers me about other people. Fear of already being that. Fear of never connecting. Fear of dying by myself. Fear of dying in a dark restaurant with women I didn’t really know.

The communist picked up her basket of fries and held it out. “Anyone want these?” she asked. No one said anything. “I do,” I said, and then I reached across and took two handfuls. Dear god. What was I doing?

Izzie talked to me from across the table and asked if I was ready for the angels tomorrow. She had just moved in next door, and we had hiked together a few times. I was chewing and couldn’t speak. Suzanne said, “Who’s coming? Are you having guests?” And I said no, at the same time Izzie said, “Yes, she is.” And I said, “Not really,” at the same time Izzie said, “they’re at my house right now.” And I said, “They’re not actually real” and Izzie looked at me and said, without smiling, “Oh they absolutely are. They come through the front door listen to your intentions.” I shrugged with my lips sealed.

Suzanne, who was a little drunk and searching for words, said, finally, “Lovely,” and then Izzie said, “It really really is.” and then to herself quietly, “It really is.”

I took advantage of the awkward silence to reach for more fries. and the commie said, here have them all. I wasn’t sure if she meant here have them all you fucking animal, or if she was being generous. I took them and tried to eat them one at a time.

I was desperate for a drink and looked around for a waiter and I saw this guy named Andrew I knew from 25 years ago. I had met him because he came to see me in a play once and asked me out after. We walked from 48th street to Prince and he smoked an entire joint by himself and told me sex was the same with anyone, and that a vagina was basically a non-penis. All these details, the play, the walking, the joint, the non-penis, dropped into my head in 3 seconds like photos in a fashion shoot the moment I saw him. I turned away and scooched my chair out of view.

We ended up dating a few months. He was young but already a successful writer and I had played a smart but vulnerable stripper in the show, and that’s basically who we were to each other the entire time we were together. I don’t know how we ever had a conversation. Maybe that’s how it always is in relationships, you are forever the person you were when you first met. Sometimes that’s a great thing, sometimes it’s not. I looked away. I suddenly understood why old people just groan out loud for no reason.

The commie leaned towards me and said, “You’re not interested in the angels?”

“No,” I said, glad for her conspiratorial tone. I ordered a drink, and the waiter came back quickly. I gulped it down and banged my glass like a shot. Jesus.

The commie and I smiled like we were both watching a show together.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked, not unkind.

“I like that you go right to the intimate question.”

“I’m not sure asking the obvious is intimate.”

That made me laugh. “I don’t go out much,” I said, finally.

“Nor I,” she said. I liked her old fashioned-ness. We looked at each other. The way the light was, she looked almost transparent like a ghost.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” I said.

“You’re too old to have a boyfriend.”

“Too old for this particular boyfriend.”

“Boring,” she said.

“Mostly,” I said. I felt my eyes start to fill and I let out a chuckle. “I didn’t care about him but--”

“--You don’t want to be old and alone.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “No offense.”

Now she laughed. It was full and happy.

Suzanne said, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Everything,” the woman said, and then to me, “I’ve never been with a younger man.”

“He wasn’t that much younger. Ten years,” I looked at her looking at me, “Fifteen.”

“That’s not much.”

“It felt like it,” I said, “Most of the time.”

I waved the waiter over for another drink, and looked at the woman, her face was lined but beautiful and her eyes were alive and intense. “I don’t drink,” I said to her, “Like, ever.”

“I never would have guessed.”

“Did you know Charlie Chaplin?” I asked.

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“No. I didn’t know him. But when my husband got sick, we moved him into the space that had been Charlie’s office. Don has Alzheimer’s and recently his muscles kind of froze and he can’t walk so we had to put him downstairs, and every morning I go in and often there is something on his bedside table, a marble, a feather, a little pile of buttons, and I always think it’s Charlie leaving things.”

“What? Like a ghost?

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “You don’t believe in spirits.”

“Huh?”

“The angels. Inviting them to your house.”

“Oh god. I don’t know why I agreed to that,” I whispered, “I’m curious I guess.”

“I would be too.”

“I believe in guardian angels,” I said.

“Ghosts?”

“No. Not like that. Guardian angels are just real people who show up at the right time,” I said.

The waiter came back and set another drink in front of me.

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows.

She laughed. We laughed. “I think you’re doing great,” she said, “You’re brave, I can tell.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“It’ll pass, it always does” she said. And with that, she stood up and pulled her coat and a cane from her chair, “I have to get back to Don,” she announced to everyone. I rose to give her a hug. “Stop by,” she said, “I’ll let you pick my ear.”